A/N: Hi! This is the Christmas present I have given the always exceptional OryonUK, otherwise known as Kim, because she is another one of my favourite people ever. I hope she likes it, and you too! Warnings for Johnlock, angsty Mystrade, jealousy, eating disorders, Mrs Holmes, sneaky Downton Abbey and Cabin Pressure references and Christmas jumpers.

"So this is where you lived as a kid."

It was the gates that did it. It wouldn't have looked that bad, if not for the massive bloody wrought iron gates.

Somewhere in John's subconscious, he had pictured Sherlock living somewhere different as a child- though it was hard to imagine an eight year old Sherlock in the first place. Sherlock playing with toys? Having nightmares? Wetting the bed? No. It all seemed a little undignified for him. Sherlock, in John's mind, had been born with the mental age of around 27 and had grown from there, and was much much older in cynicism.

But the house certainly didn't fit his image of Sherlock's childhood either. He had thought it would be a sleek, modern penthouse in central London, probably one of the most expensive buildings in the city. He did not expect this.

"It's…"

"What?" asked Sherlock blankly, still staring out the window.

"Well. When you said 'out of London' I just thought you meant central London. Not the countryside."

Sherlock stepped out of the car which he had previously been driving- this too was a revelation to John, who wasn't entirely sure that Sherlock had a license. "Well, the family does own property within the city, but my mother prefers to spend her time in the main house."

John stared up at the large, imposing iron gates. The gates and the walls were so high that he couldn't see the house from the other side, but it was sure to be huge.

Sherlock rang the bell, and a smooth but aged voice answered. "Holmes residence."

"Ah, hello Robert."

"Mr Holmes!" the man seemed delighted. "How good to see you in the house again. It's been too long."

"Thank you, Robert. If you could open the gates for us, my friend and me are about to drive up."

"Certainly, Mr Holmes."

The gates gently swung open. John gaped at the conversation which had just passed. "Sherlock, do you have a BUTLER?"

He looked faintly embarrassed. "The family has a butler."

They both got back into the car. "Christ, I've walked into Downton Abbey."

"What?"

"Oh, nothing." John stared out the window as Sherlock drove up the long path to the house. The land seemed almost endless, snow covered grass stretching for miles and miles around the house, which loomed imposingly in front of them. It really was like a period drama- the house was huge. He felt very, very small.

Eventually, Sherlock pulled up at the door. "This is it, then."

They got out again and Sherlock went to take their suitcases from the boot whilst John stared up at the place. "This is insane, Sherlock. Are you like an Earl or something?"

Sherlock snorted. "Of course not."

John relaxed. "OK."

"Mycroft inherited the title, he's the oldest."

John was prevented from speaking again by the arrival of said Earl. "Ah, Sherlock. So good of you to come."

"I'm coming to see Mummy, not you."

"As I am well aware." It was strange to see Mycroft out of his three piece suits- he was wearing a white shirt, navy jumper and, unbelievably, jeans. Mycroft Holmes. In jeans. He turned to John. "How are you?"

"I think I may have walked into a parallel universe."

"Ah. It's the clothes, isn't it?"

"Afraid so."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I wasn't born in a waistcoat, John."

"You may as well have been," Sherlock interjected, beginning to walk into the entrance hall. "You used to demand that everything on your desk had to be perpendicular. You threw a hissy fit when I turned your pencil case to 45º."

Mycroft frowned. "Someone had to be neat, Sherlock. You were too busy setting fire to the kitchen."

Sherlock glared at them both as Mycroft smirked and John sniggered. "Shut up. Where's Mummy?"

"In the downstairs library."

They placed their cases by the stairs. "You have more than one library?"

"Mummy does."

The whole place was decadent. Every ceiling and floor was gilded and furnished to the highest quality, gleaming in the relative dark of the winter. It was, after all, Christmas Eve. It wasn't going to be the lightest of times, but inside everything seemed bright. He'd expected it to be dark, cold, unfeeling, but it felt like a welcome place.

Eventually they made it to a large room. Every wall was completely covered by large, floor to ceiling bookcases, all fill to the brim with old books. They were fine leather bound copies which must have cost a fortune even when new, in a hundred different colours. A ladder on a rail passed around the entire room, on which a tall woman stood replacing books.

"Mummy!" Sherlock cried, a wide grin on his face.

She looked around and descended the ladder with remarkable grace considering the speed at which she was travelling. "Sherlock, darling!"

Sherlock hugged his mother tightly and chuckled. "You've changed your hair. I don't like it."

"Oh shut up you insufferable boy," she gave him a faux glare, "You have no taste. Mycroft likes it, don't you Mycroft?"

Mycroft nodded. "I think it suits her."

"Well Mycroft's a suck up and his opinion is therefore worthless," Sherlock pouted.

"Play nicely boys," Sherlock's mother purred. "Now, aren't you going to introduce me?"

Now she was stood on the ground, John noted with a large degree of discomfort that Mrs Holmes was taller than him. She had angular features, the dark curls cut short around her face and giving her a remarkably chic look along with her fashionable clothes. John knew from her slight accent that she was French, and indeed she seemed to resemble an amalgamation of Coco Chanel and Brigitte Bardot.

"John," said Sherlock. "This is my mother, Liana. Mummy, this is my friend and colleague, John."

John gave her a good natured smile which she returned. "It's good to meet you, Mrs Holmes."

"Oh please," she waved away his suggestion with her hand. "Call me Liana."

She seemed a kind if formidable woman, who whilst appearing harmless carried an air of power and confidence. John realised where Sherlock got his ability to command the attention of a room now, and his almost unexplainable elegance.

"You have a wonderful house, Liana."

"Why thank you, John! It's a strange old place, but I've grown to love it." Her voice suddenly grew sharp. "Sherlock, you've left the door open. For God's sake, go shut it."

"Sorry mother."

She rolled her eyes as Sherlock did so. "He's a clever boy, but he's dreadfully forgetful. Now, I'm afraid you won't have time to rest for long- I'm enlisting you three to help decorate for the party tonight."

The annual Holmes Christmas fundraisers were, if he'd researched correctly, revered among the social elite of the UK. Each year a different cause was helped- this year all money donated by the patrons was given to the Metropolitan Police. John believed that this was due to Liana's gratitude for giving her son something to do- because lord knows; Sherlock would be in a very different position if he weren't allowed on cases.

The only other description he'd managed to get was a graphically different one from Sherlock, who reviled the occasion and would rather not have gone at all. Still, it could be nice, especially in a building as wonderful as this one.

"The fir trees arrived a few hours ago- there are a few in each of the rooms that I've already sorted out with Mycroft, but there's a large one in the main hall and I thought you could help out with that one."

"Mummy," Sherlock whined, "you know I despise Christmas."

"Tough. As soon as you've put your stuff in your rooms, I want you helping, understand?"

"Yes mother," he grumbled, reluctantly picking up their bags. Sherlock and John made their way upstairs, travelling through the labyrinthine corridors to find the rooms they were looking for.

"Um," Sherlock said quietly. "Your room will be next to mine, with a shared bathroom. I hope you don't mind."

John laughed. "Sherlock, you realise that we share our bathroom normally?"

"Well yes, but in a house of this size I feel like I should be able to offer you another toilet."

John rolled his eyes. "I'll be fine." He opened the door to his room. There was a four poster bed against the wall opposite him, the rich purple coverings gentle against the cream walls and floor. John felt like if he touched anything he might somehow deface it, like he was an intruder in the class of the room. He gently placed the case down next to the bed and went back outside to meet Sherlock.

"This Christmas tree is RIDICULOUS."

"No it's not Sherlock," Mycroft whined, carefully draping tinsel around the branches of the tree.

"Yes it is. It is stupidly big. No Christmas tree should ever be this big." He sat down in a chair defiantly. "It's arrogant is what it is."

"It's nearly done now," said Mycroft in a huff. "Honestly John, how do you stand him?"

"I'm a forgiving soul." John looked at Sherlock with a wide smile. "Want to put the star on top, Sherlock?"

He frowned. "I am not a child."

"Are you sure?"

"Just put the damn star on."

John laughed and ascended the tall ladder to finish the job. The tree was beautiful, even if he did say so himself, and John would look up at it proudly later as the party began. At that moment, Liana entered.

"Oh darlings, it's wonderful!" Much to Sherlock's irritation, she ruffled his hair a little when she spoke. He immediately attempted to flatten his hair again. Liana carefully lit a cigarette.

"They're terribly bad for you, Liana," said John, suddenly in Doctor mode.

"Ugh, who needs breathing anyway?" she replied. "Breathing's-"

"Boring," John interjected, smiling at Sherlock. "Yeah, so I've heard."

She took a long drag. "Oh yes, I forgot to mention- since it's a police fundraiser, I invited that nice Detective you're friends with, Sherlock."

"Lestrade? How'd he get the time off?"

"I made arrangements with his superior- an old friend."

John didn't want to think about the level of influence the Holmes family held in world affairs. It couldn't possibly reassure him.

Sherlock got out of his chair. "Mummy, the guests will be arriving soon."

"Not that soon," Mycroft frowned. "Although Sherlock requires time to indulge his own vanity."

"Maybe you should spend longer on your appearance, brother."

John could not help but notice the flicker of hurt that crossed Mycroft's face, though it was quickly replaced with an expression of exasperated disdain. "Don't be a child, Sherlock."

"I think I ought to get ready too," Liana sighed.

Sherlock smiled. "You look lovely already, mummy."

Liana grinned. "Aha, you think I don't know that?"

John had to laugh at this. She was definitely where Sherlock got his confidence from.

Mycroft looked at the suit that he'd lain out on his bed.

Pathetic.

It was a voice he couldn't silence, no matter how hard he tried. For all his power, for all his status, the tiny niggling uncertainty at the back of his brain could reduce him to nothing in seconds. Every day it grew, churning his insides whenever he was with company.

That comment of Sherlock's hadn't helped. It hadn't helped at all. Didn't he realise that he didn't need his help to feel physically unattractive? He felt like that most of the time anyway.

John shut the door to his room quietly, although it would not have mattered. The raucous noise from downstairs meant that he could have slammed it shut and no-one would have noticed.

"You took your time," said Sherlock absentmindedly, glancing down at his nails.

"You were hogging the shower, of course I took longer."

"No need to have a hissy fit, John," Sherlock said in mock outrage.

John took in what Sherlock was wearing for the first time. The bastard looked dashing, as he always did, making John feel a little uncomfortable.

Sherlock noticed his gaze. "Dolce."

"Ah. You spend a ridiculous amount on clothes considering you 'supposedly' have very little money?"

Sherlock grinned as they began to descend the stairs. "You're probably right. But I look good, don't I?"

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, you do, you arrogant bastard." It was true. No wonder he felt inadequate around Sherlock when he strutted around looking like that.

Sherlock laughed at the comment. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

They arrived in the dining hall, which was of course stunning. The whole place was lit by dazzlingly bright lights, as much of the house was, except that these seemed a lot warmer. It made the place almost cosy despite its large size, though the large sea of people also helped.

"Ready?" John asked.

"As I'll ever be."

Mycroft waited awkwardly in his seat at the front of the room, sat beside his mother. He was currently engaged in listening to a Turkish ambassador's anecdote about a pair of socks. It was, needless to say, not very interesting. Quite why he of all people had to listen to these people he wasn't sure- actually, scratch that, he did know why. It was because he'd done what was expected of him and gotten a respectable job instead of going on a three year binge at Uni and ending up a "consulting detective". Not that he didn't value his brother's contribution- which was more than could be said of Sherlock, who seemed to detest Mycroft with every ounce of his being- it would just be nice for someone else to do all the official stuff for a change.

He was approached by his mother. "Mycroft, I see you've met Mr Pamuk."

"Indeed I have," he said, standing up with an overly wide smile, "he's just been telling me a rather amusing story, actually."

"Of course. But I'd like you to meet DI Lestrade- he'll be making an announcement on behalf of the Met later tonight."

"Ah!" Mycroft extended a hand to the silver haired man. "So good to finally put a face to a name."

Lestrade gripped his hand tight- a good handshake. "Likewise. I've heard a lot about you from Sherlock."

Mycroft sighed. "I can't imagine you have the best of impressions of me, then."

Lestrade smiled. "Well, I take everything Sherlock says with a pinch of salt."

He couldn't help but smile. There was something about the man which invited confidence. "I'm glad of that, at least."

Lestrade sat down beside him- apparently, this was where he had been seated. Mycroft found himself grateful of that fact. "I, er, don't go to many of these things. They're not really my kind of thing."

"I'm afraid they're required in my line of work."

Lestrade poured himself a glass of water. "I hear you're the British Government."

Mycroft flushed. "I am not the British Government."

"Bet you know the codes for the nukes, though," Lestrade grinned.

Ordinarily, Mycroft might have found this statement invasive. But it was said in such an earnest, honest manner that it was inherently likeable. "That is highly classified information which I could not possibly discuss. At least, not till I've had more wine."

"I'll drink to that," he replied, taking two glasses from a nearby waiter and handing one to Mycroft.

"Well that was convenient."

"I'll say. I feel like we ought to toast something…"

Mycroft though for a moment. "The Met?"

"Ugh, not work. I'm glad for a night off. I intend to get royally hammered."

Mycroft laughed. "Well, I'd recommend not getting too drunk, especially not if you're driving."

"I'm stopping in the village, actually. I've gotten three days off- lord knows why they picked me to make this damn speech, I'm terrible at speaking publicly."

He raised his glass. "To having time off work in order to get," he paused, "royally hammered."

Lestrade laughed and brought his glass up to meet his. "Yes, and I won't get drunk alone."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "I've only been drunk once, and it was once of the most horrific experiences of my life."

"Clearly you didn't get drunk with me," Lestrade replied.

"Oh. Does that make a difference?"

"It can do," he replied, winking.

Mycroft was suddenly unsure of what to say. He felt very hot under the collar. "Well, er… Cheers."

Dinner was passing largely without event. They were currently on their main course, a terribly small meal which no doubt cost thousands to prepare. John sat to the right of Sherlock. "I never get used to these things."

"What, after thirty five years you're not used to them? Think how I feel."

Sherlock frowned down at his food, which he hadn't touched save for pushing it around his plate with his cutlery for a while. "I deeply dislike this atmosphere- why do you think I got out of here?"

The doors at the end of the room opened, and a latecomer arrived. A man in a navy suit entered, commanding the attention of the room with… Well, John wasn't quite sure what. He has an atmosphere, a certain presence that made him stand out. His tanned skin and blonde hair looked strange next to the pale skinned Holmes family, whom he was making his way towards.

"I am so sorry I'm late," he said to Liana, revealing an accent that John couldn't quite place. If forced to guess, he would say… Norfolk? "Would you believe I got lost on the way up here?"

"Oh Victor, you are a funny one." Liana smiled. "Do sit down- I've sat you next to Sherlock."

He sat down next to him. "I feel awful for getting here so late. And with such an awkward entrance! You must think I'm terribly rude."

Sherlock shrugged, seemingly indifferent to his presence. Victor smiled at John. "Aren't you going to introduce me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock again said nothing, fixing Victor with one of his glares that he often gave John and he could never quite read. Victor rolled his eyes. "He's a strange one, isn't he?" He stuck out his hand, which John shook. "Pleased to meet you- Victor, Victor Trevor."

"John Watson, hi."

Liana turned to them. "It's been too long, darling."

"We really must meet up more often. It's so hard, what with me living in America."

"Whereabouts?" John asked.

"I live near Central Park."

"I've always wanted to visit New York," John said wistfully. "I've never been able to go to America, I'm afraid."

"Oh, if you get the chance, you have to go. America's a hugely diverse country."

John smiled, whilst Sherlock remained resolutely silent. He rather liked Victor, he was charming. It made rather a change from Sherlock's icy cold put downs. "So Victor- what do you do?"

"I'm a physicist, actually."

"Oh!" John knew very little about science and possessed an even smaller desire to find out, but attempted to seem keen. "How interesting."

"It's a wonderful job. I get to travel a lot, which is great. It's more like a hobby than a career, really."

"You're being overly modest," Liana said smoothly. "He's won awards for that brain of his."

He laughed. "A few trinkets, yes. But I've heard a lot about John and his career, I don't think I could compare to how morally rewarding being a doctor must be."

John shrugged. "It's nothing, really… Most of the time I'm running around with Sherlock."

"And a soldier, too. Honestly, I admire you deeply for both your careers. I'm just glad Sherlock's got someone to look after him. I can't imagine what I'd do in that situation- can you imagine me trying to fend off an attacker with a telescope?"

John smiled, feeling a bit inadequate. He wasn't really comfortable in amongst these rich, talented people. What did he have to offer? It was bad enough feeling stupid around Sherlock, let alone all his family and friends.

"He was always playing with that damn telescope of his as a child," said Liana fondly. "Non stop."

"You were friends as children?" John asked Sherlock.

"Aha," Liana laughed. "A little more than friends."

John swallowed hard. "Oh?"

"Sherlock and I dated for a while in our youth," Victor explained. "For a couple of years, actually. Right up until I went back to America for college."

"Right." A sudden feeling of unease fell over John. So Sherlock had been with someone? That ended a long term speculation of his. He had been so sure that Sherlock was- well. A virgin. But quite why he felt so strange about the idea he did not know.

They were interrupted by the waiters taking away their plates, and Victor quickly delved back into stories of their shared childhood. John listened, yes, but he was not quite as enraptured with him as he had been earlier. Sure, he was charming, but… There was something about him that grated on his nerves.

Mycroft was aware of two things whilst talking to Les- Greg; he had insisted that Mycroft call him Greg. One- that they weren't similar, but that in no way bothered him. They represented two different ways of stopping the country falling into collapse- Greg had the weight of the law behind him, and was deeply respectful of it. Mycroft routinely broke the law for the greater good, which Greg must have been aware of, but he seemed to realise that sometimes it was necessary. Greg enjoyed sport, which Mycroft detested. He did not go to the theatre and knew nothing about opera. He was, for a high ranking police officer, relatively poor. Mycroft was decidedly otherwise. But it didn't seem to matter.

Two- Greg could find common ground with pretty much everyone. With Mycroft, it was mutual concern for Sherlock. With Sherlock, it was crime. And with their mother, it was France.

"Do correct me if I'm wrong," Liana had asked as desert was taken away, "but Lestrade is a French surname, yes?"

"It is. My father was French."

"Oh!" Liana was delighted. "How lovely. Were you brought up in France?"

"I'm afraid not, though I visited my grandparents there a lot as a child."

"Parlez-vous français?"

"Seulement un peu," he replied. "Je n'ai jamais été bonne connaissance des langues."

Mycroft smiled. "You are a man of many surprises."

"I like to think so," he said, giving Mycroft a shy smile. Mycroft was quite taken back by how friendly he was being. He'd never been good socially, apart from on matters of business, but Greg made it seem so easy…

Liana tapped a fork against her glass, the chime attracting the attention of the room. "Ladies and gentleman, just before I hand over to the representative from the Met, I'd like to thank you all for coming and donating what you have. This money will all go to a good cause, and I'm sure we all appreciate what the police do to keep us safe."

There was a smattering of applause before she continued. "Now, I'd like to introduce to you one of their finest officers, Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade."

More applause as Greg stood. Mycroft noticed that his hands were shaking a little. "Thank you, Mrs Holmes. I'd like to say on behalf-"

There was a loud, crackling noise and the sound of breaking glass. Suddenly, all the lights in the room went out and they were plunged into darkness. There was a brief moment of silence, before there was a deep, piercing scream from nearby. A scream which Mycroft recognised as his mother's.

"Mother!" Mycroft cried. "Mother, are you alright?"

He could not see an inch in front of his face; the whole place was pitch black. More people had begun to panic when they'd heard the scream, and in a few seconds the place was filled with panic.

"Mother! Where are you?" Mycroft shouted again, attempting to search for where his mother was. He moved towards the shrieks. "Mother!"

He could just about make out John crouching beside her. She had run into a corner of the room and was sobbing uncontrollably, her breathing shaky and shuddering. "John, is she alright?"

"Mother!" came Sherlock's voice, and he heard his brother's thundering footsteps towards them. The rest of the room was still in chaos, and Mycroft caught snatches of panicked shouts from the guests. The noise was broken by the sound of a man's voice.

"Everybody, calm down!" Greg shouted, banging the table loudly to get their attention. The crowd fell silent; the only noises to be heard now were the sobs of Liana and John's attempts to sooth her. "Right. The lights have gone, nothing more, so would everyone remain where they are?" He cleared his throat. "Does anyone have a light?"

Mycroft pulled a small keychain from his pocket, attached to which there was a small LED light. "Will this do?"

"Perfect. Now- I'll go and look for the fuse box if someone could give me a hand."

"I will," said Mycroft quickly.

"Thanks." He turned to approximately where John was crouched. "John, how is Mrs Holmes?"

"We need to get the lights on, and quickly," John said. "It must have triggered her attack. Please hurry."

Greg and Mycroft moved through the room awkwardly, the small beam of light making it just bright enough to see. Eventually they made it to the door.

"Which way?" Greg asked.

"Follow me." Mycroft guided himself around by touch and memory, gripping the walls to gain some idea of where he was going. "Are you still with me, Greg?"

"Right behind," he said softly. "Is it close?"

"It's just in here." Mycroft grasped the smooth cold door handle and pulled, revealing what he knew to be the pantry. He felt around for the fuse box whilst Greg entered behind him.

"Have you found it?"

"Yes," Mycroft said quickly, scrabbling with the opening. "For God's sake…"

Greg placed a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, don't worry. She's going to be fine."

He relaxed a little, and managed to open the lid. He felt for the switch and flicked it back up. Almost immediately, the lights flickered back on.

"There you go," said Greg reassuringly.

Mycroft turned, and found Greg stood extremely close to him in the cramped pantry. The amount of heat the man emanated was astonishing- Mycroft would have liked to monitor it somehow, in an experiment resembling one which his brother might have created. But he digressed, that was not the main issue at hand. Greg's beautiful features were his priority now. Being so close, he could see every line and wrinkle of the man's tanned skin, the subtle differences in each shade of grey within the man's hair. Each strand seemed like a different colour, the whole spectrum from white to black contained within it. He appreciated Greg's strong jaw line, highlighted by the barest hint of stubble. But most of all, it was those eyes… The perfect size, almond shapes in his head, a brown so close to black that he thought they might swallow him up. Yes, he was glad that being this close to Greg meant he could catalogue his face. Except it meant that Greg could see every inch of his own features…

"We ought to go," he said abruptly. "Mother will be worrying."

Sherlock attempted to make his way over to his mother, but John stopped him. "Don't touch her. I know you want to reassure her, but it won't help. She's having a severe panic attack- has it happened before?"

"Yes, though not for a while. My mother suffers from acute scelerophobia."

"In English, please."

"She fears- how to phrase it- bad people. People who might harm her- thieves, murderers, rapists. It's why she insists all the windows and doors are locked at all times they're not in use. I imagine the suddenness of the darkness meant that she felt under attack."

John was a little shocked at the level of concern in Sherlock's voice. Of course, he was talking about his own mother, but still… "Sherlock, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to stay back."

Sherlock did so reluctantly and John felt him brush past as he left. He crouched next to Liana again. "It's OK, it's all going to be fine. Just take deep breaths."

Almost as quickly as they had gone out, the bulbs flickered into life.

John should have been focusing on Liana, who had slumped back in relief, her erratic breathing slowing slightly. But this was momentarily immaterial, as he spotted Sherlock in the corner of his eye.

Sherlock and Victor standing near to the wall opposite John, Victor with his back pressed to it. Sherlock had a hand on his chest, as if pushing him hard against it. Sherlock's hand was startlingly pale against the blue of Victor's suit. They were very close together, Sherlock just a little taller than Victor, staring down into Victor's grinning face.

They sprung apart as soon as the lights returned, and it looked as though no-one but John had noticed. John felt Liana hurl her arms around his neck and sob into his shoulder, but he barely registered the movement. He was a little preoccupied with the sudden urge to stand up, march his way over there and tear Victor fucking Trevor a new one.

"Mother, are you alright?" said Sherlock, showing no signs of emotion at what had just happened and immediately embracing her. John stood up and straightened his suit, staring hard at Victor. So he liked to make moves on people in the dark, did he? Well. That was classy. But it was fine. Because Sherlock- Well Sherlock didn't do that sort of thing, did he? No. "Not his area." But that was women. Not men. Not one particular man. Who, as was proved to him that night, Sherlock had a history with. And he had looked awfully compliant… He was the one pushing Victor up a wall, after all. But it didn't bother him. Not one bit. Not. At. All.

Mycroft and Lestrade came back into the room, looking a little flustered. Perhaps they'd ran there. "Is Mother alright?"

"She'll be fine." John looked around at the scores of shocked guests. "Don't worry. But I think it's for the best if we ended the party- Liana is exhausted."

Lestrade raised his voice. "I'm sorry, ladies and gentleman, but I'm afraid we'll have to postpone the evening. Poor Mrs Holmes should not be on her feet. I'm sure you understand…"

There was a sea of nodding heads- with the occasional disgruntled murmur- and the crowd began to disperse. Mycroft looked down at his mother. "You scared me, Mummy."

Liana had calmed enough to laugh. "You shouldn't worry so."

"Someone has to." He looked at Sherlock. "Mummy needs to be in bed."

"I agree," Sherlock replied. "Let me help you to your room, mother."

She put up a shaking hand. "I- I don't want to."

"Liana," said John, "please listen to me. I am a Doctor. It will do you the world of good to sleep."

"It's…" her voice quivered, "not safe." She began to cry again.

Mycroft soothed her. "Mummy, please, don't cry…"
Lestrade cleared his throat. "I- I don't know if this would help, but- I'm with the police, and I have the full authority of the Met behind me. I could- I don't know, guard her? John could help too- his army training, and all that."

John nodded in agreement, whilst Mycroft smiled at Lestrade. "You would be willing to do that?"

"Yes, definitely. If Mrs Holmes would feel safe…"

She nodded desperately at him. "Thank you, thank you both."

Victor coughed. "I, er, I better go. Early flight tomorrow morning and all that. But I hope you feel better soon, Liana."

"Thank you, Victor." Mycroft and Lestrade began to help Liana towards the door.

Victor turned to John. "It was a pleasure to meet you, John. I hope we meet again soon."

"As do I," John replied, his voice brittle. He couldn't quite place why.

Victor smiled at the consulting detective. "Let's talk again soon, Sherlock." His voice was a slow purr. Sherlock nodded curtly back, and Victor left.

There was a moment of silence after Victor closed the door.

"So…"

"So…"

John checked his watch, more for something to do than anything. "Victor's nice."

"You think so?"

"Yes. Why wouldn't I think so?"

"No reason at all."

"…You don't think Victor's nice?"

"Of course I do."

"Oh. OK."

"Yes."

"Fine." Nonchalantly done, John. "Maybe we should…" He pointed to the stairs.

"Yeah."

They travelled up the stairs in silence, and John could think of nothing but Victor. Victor bloody Trevor. Sherlock led the way to Liana's room, just as Mycroft and Lestrade were leaving it. "She's in bed," said Lestrade. "Shall you take the first shift, John, or shall I?"

"I'll do it," John said, frankly just wanting to get away from Sherlock.

Mycroft looked sullen. "You don't have to do this, either of you. Sherlock and I can do it, while you two rest."

John waved the suggestion aside. "It's fine, Mycroft. To be quite honest, I think your mother would be more assured by the idea of her sons' friends guarding her than her precious boys, don't you?"

Mycroft nodded. "A valid point. But, um," he turned to Lestrade. "Greg, I can, er, show you to one of the guest rooms now…"

"That would be wonderful, thank you. I'll be back in about two hours, John, if that's OK?"

"No problem."

"Greg, why don't you stay for Christmas dinner?" Mycroft asked. "Mummy will want to show her gratitude, she'll not let you out the door…"

He smiled. "You wouldn't mind?"

"No! Of course not."

"I'd be delighted."

"Wait a second," Sherlock interrupted. "What's he going to do for clothes?"

Mycroft shifted his weight from side to side. "He could borrow some from you?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No offence to Lestrade, but I'm a lot thinner than he is."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Well thank you very much."

"You know I didn't mean it like that. I'm just stating the obvious."

"Of course. Besides, I wouldn't like to be as thin as you, Sherlock. A man shouldn't be all skin and bones."

"Getting back to the point," Sherlock continued, "I can't lend him my clothes, and John only has enough clothes with him for himself. He'll have to borrow yours, brother."

Mycroft looked a little uncomfortable at that. "Fine. But this is why you shouldn't wear such tight clothes." John took a look at the straining buttons of Sherlock's shirt and had to agree. He'd never taken the time to look before.

Sherlock gave him a smug grin. "What can I say? I think I look good in tight clothing."

Mycroft looked at his shoes. "Greg, I'll find you a room."

They walked off down the corridor together, leaving Sherlock and John alone. He dithered around the door. "I'd better go look after Liana."

Sherlock's smile faded. "You don't have to…"

"It's fine."

They paused. "Well then," Sherlock replied. "Goodnight, John."

"Goodnight Sherlock."

Sherlock walked in the opposite direction, and John watched him until he turned the corner before sighing and opening Liana's door.

Mycroft grasped the door handle of the guest room nervously. "I hope this is to your liking…"

They both walked into the room, colour co-ordinated around dark blue. The curtains and the cushions and the walls were all the same shade, working well with the cream carpet and sheets.

"This is beautiful," said Lestrade. "I don't think that I've ever been in a place like this."

"Thank you. Mummy decorated, of course- she's rather possessive of the rooms."

Lestrade looked out the window at the darkened sky. "Can I ask you a question, Mycroft?"

He swallowed hard. "Of course."

"Your mother was scared because she feared someone was going to hurt her- what triggered the fear?"

Mycroft sighed. "If I knew, I'd tell you, but she doesn't talk about it. I know it happened in her youth, but she'll say nothing about it. It's like she forgets. Tomorrow, she'll act like tonight never happened, I guarantee it."

Lestrade bit his lip. "Me being here, does it help?"

"Immensely. Thank you, again."

"It's not an issue. I'm glad I'm here. It's nice to be with people at Christmas…" Lestrade tailed off, looking embarrassed. "Christ, I sounded pathetic just then."

"Nonsense. I understand."

"I tend to work at Christmas because you get paid better. Not that I'm really saving for anything…"

"I rarely get to spend Christmas with the family. The world doesn't stop turning because of Christmas…" They both smiled at each other sheepishly. "I'll fetch you some pyjamas and clothes to wear." The thought was stuck in Mycroft's mind, rather embarrassingly. His clothes against Greg's skin.

"I'll come with you," he insisted. They walked out into the corridor, staying silent for a while.

"So…" said Mycroft eventually, unsure how to phrase it. "You don't stay with your family at Christmas, then?"

"My parents are dead," Greg replied, shaking his head at Mycroft's expression of sympathy. "It was a long time ago. I was an only child, and I didn't really speak to my other relatives, so I've never really had that family Christmas."

The older Holmes brother hesitated. "So just you and your girlfriend, then?"

Greg looked almost alarmed at the question, and Mycroft violently back tracked. "Not that I'm assuming- I mean, I don't have a boy- I don't have a partner, you might be like Sherlock, I don't know…"

"I haven't had a boyfriend or a girlfriend in a while," Greg explained. He was bi then. Mycroft's heart leapt. "So no."

"Ah. Right." Mycroft felt hugely embarrassed. Since when was he so useless socially? He was SUPPOSED to be the persuasive one…

"So, just out of interest," Greg asked in an offhand fashion. "You're not, er, seeing anyone?"

"No."

"OK."

They reached the door of Mycroft's room. For some unknown reason, he felt self conscious about showing Greg the place where he had spent a great deal of his childhood. Nervously, he let them through.

Mycroft's room was dull, especially when considered to the chaos of Sherlock's bedroom. Everything was neatly packed away in draws, everything at right angles to each other, very little personal detail at all. There was a single photograph of Mycroft and Sherlock on the bedside table, both scowling at the camera, but that was all.

Mycroft walked over to the other side of the room where a chest of drawers stood. "I'm afraid I only keep old clothes here, so they might be a little out of fashion…"

"Not a problem," Greg laughed, perching himself on the end of his bed. "I've never been clothes orientated, really. Not like your brother…"

"He does buy ridiculous clothes considering the inconsistency of his income. I've got a stable wage, I'm fine, I know how much money I have."

"Which is a lot," Greg said pointedly.

He blushed. "Not when compared to some."

"Well, certainly more than me." He ran his hand over the cashmere jumper Mycroft was holding out. "You own very nice clothes."

"As you say, clothes aren't everything."

"No, I should say not."

Mycroft nearly choked but recovered himself well. "Jeans, a white shirt, some pyjamas, socks and…um. Underwear?"

He could have sworn he saw the police officer blush. "Thank you." This was just too awkward. This was why he didn't… Well, he didn't do whatever the hell he was doing with Greg.

"Not a problem. Sorry they're a bit… big," he said apologetically.

"They're really not, Mycroft. I think you're imagining things."

"I think not," he laughed. "You had to pick between two extremes of weight, I'm afraid. Lord knows how people ever recognise us as brothers."

"Don't talk like that." Greg's voice was soft, filled with concern.

"I was just joking," Mycroft said quietly.

"But you weren't." Greg put his hand on his shoulder, close to the point where it joined with his neck. Mycroft felt a jolt of arousal. Greg's thumb brushed the base of his neck, making him shiver at the contact.

He was disappointed when Greg released him. "I'll get some sleep in before my shift. Thank you for your clothes."

"Don't mention it," he replied, as strongly as he could, and Greg left. Mycroft leaned back against the chest of drawers, mentally chastising himself for letting his hand creep up to the spot where Greg's had been, touching it softly.

"Get a grip, man. Get a grip."

John sat in the corner of Liana's room, thinking. She was sleeping now, and John suspected she would remain so, but he had sworn he would not leave and he didn't want to think of her reaction if she did wake and found him gone. Besides, he wouldn't have been able to sleep now anyway.

It wasn't the sexuality thing that was bothering him. Lord knows, he didn't get the nickname "Three Continents Watson" back in the army without experimenting a little. He'd been with men. But it wasn't the fact that Sherlock was a man that he took issue to, it was the fact he was Sherlock. He didn't do sex or relationships or anything, there was no use in harbouring a crush that would never come to fruition. At least, he had thought that Sherlock didn't do anything. He'd seemed pretty intensely fascinated with Victor.

Victor wasn't that special. Sure, he was intelligent, and rather good looking… Oh hell, maybe he was that special? Certainly more special than John at any rate. He was just an old doctor who wore jumpers his mum knitted him and could only type two words a minute.

There was a quiet knock at the door. John got up and let Lestrade in. "You're early."

"Couldn't sleep. Get to bed; I'll be OK for a while."

"You're sure?"

"Yes. I'll wake you in a couple of hours."

John was about to leave, when Lestrade spoke. "John- Is Mycroft…"

"Is Mycroft what?"

"Is he OK?"

John frowned. "I don't know. I don't really talk to him."

"I think that might be the problem. He seems lonely…"

"Oh." He didn't know quite what to say. "Lestrade, are you and he…?"

"No. Are you and Sherlock…?"

"No."

Both sensed the regret in the other's voice, but said nothing. The rest of the night's switchovers passed without comment.

John awoke in his own bed, bleary eyed. Groaning, he buried his head in the pillow and fumbled on the bedside table for his watch. 11:00… It was strange. He'd set an alarm for 8, and he usually slept until it went off… He wondered why he'd slept through it, and why Greg had not woken him.

That was before he noticed the Sherlock Holmes sat in the chair opposite his bed.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, nearly falling out of bed. "Don't do that!"

Sherlock frowned. "Do what?"

"Sneak into my room!"

He stood up, absentmindedly tapping away at his phone. "Why not?"

"Well!" he spluttered. "I- I could have been naked!"

"Please. You don't sleep naked."

"How would you know?" The outrage John might normally have felt was tinged with something else. Something like curiosity.

"You're the most British person I know, John. You're far too uptight."

"I'm not uptight!" he replied, swinging his legs out of bed and sitting upright.

"Yes you are."

John sighed. "Let's just go find the others, then. Should we change first?"

"No point. Pyjamas should be fine."

They stepped out onto the corridor and walked down to where they knew Mycroft was sleeping. He didn't seem hugely pleased when he answered.

"Getting up this early in the morning is obscene."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's Christmas."

"Oh really? I hadn't noticed."

"He's sarcastic when he's tired," Sherlock said to John, making him laugh.

They had intended to go to Liana's room, but met her en route. She was still in her dressing gown but her hair and makeup were perfect, the confident and charismatic woman he had first met having returned. "Merry Christmas, darlings." She kissed each one of them, including John. "I've sent dear Greg down to the kitchen to get some coffee- poor thing came into my room to wake me and he looked so tired, lord knows why! You're not looking too good yourself, John. Are you feeling OK?"

He shared a look with the Holmes brothers and understood that he was not to mention what happened. "Insomnia, I'm afraid."

"If you need to go back to bed, that's fine…"

"I'll be OK, but thank you."

They headed down the large staircase into the entrance hall, the room flooded with light from the large windows. They found Lestrade in the living room by the tree, sipping at his drink. "Merry Christmas," he smiled.

They all gathered around the large fir tree, Mycroft and Liana sat in arm chairs by the fire place whilst Sherlock and John sat cross legged on the floor. "It's been a long time since we all had Christmas together," Liana smiled proudly.

"Enough talk," Sherlock said finally. "Presents, I think."

"I'm sorry we have nothing to give you," Mycroft said apologetically to Lestrade.

"You weren't to know I was coming!" Lestrade laughed. "I'm just glad to be here with you."

An awkward pause.

"All of you, I should say," he clarified.

Sherlock held up a small box. "From Mycroft to Sherlock… It's not going to be another antique tie pin, is it?"

Mycroft frowned. "It's not my fault you insist on wearing your shirt open all the time. And to answer your question, no."

Sherlock ripped open the wrapping to reveal the black box. He lifted off the lid gingerly. "Oh…"

"Was that a good 'oh' or a bad 'oh'?" Mycroft asked.

"A… A good one."

"What is it?" John asked.

"I pulled a few strings at the morgue," Mycroft explained. "It's a security pass. It should let you into the morgue without you having to ask. It's only for emergencies, mind," he finished warningly.

"I'd question the legality of that," Lestrade said with a small grin, "but I'm not on duty."

"I'm glad of that. I couldn't have you arresting me."

"I think it would be more enjoyable than you're imagining it to be."

"I doubt it, somehow."

John raised his eyebrows at the innuendo passing between them whilst Sherlock picked up another parcel. "For you," he said to Mycroft, an almost bored expression on his face. "From John and me."

Mycroft took it and made quick work of the wrappings. "A pocket watch…" he said, clearly delighted. "You never normally bother!"

"John advised me that it would be a nice thing to do…" Sherlock grumbled. "Don't go getting used to it."

John passed one to Mycroft. "From Liana."

She smiled. "Boys, you may as well all open them together, they're all the same."

They each gripped a lumpy package. "Mother," said Sherlock nervously. "Have you made another dangerous foray into knitting?"

She smiled delightedly. "Fantastic! I knew you'd hate it!"

John looked a little confused, so Mycroft elaborated. "Mother buys us joke presents, ever since Sherlock complained that he didn't like the toys she bought us."

"I was nine!"

"Nevertheless," Liana continued. "You've not learned your lesson yet."

"Well, I can see where Sherlock gets his stubbornness from," John smiled.

She shot him a playful look. "I hear you like jumpers, John, so I gave you the same."

He opened the package. It was a very, very Christmassy jumper. His was green, with the silhouette of a reindeer on it. "It's lovely!" he said, genuinely touched that she had made it. He pulled it on over his T-Shirt.

"I'm so glad you like it!" Liana was delighted.

Sherlock stared at the purple jumper, holding it up in front of him incredulously. It had a robin on it.

"Oh, Sherlock, it suits you!" John teased, earning him an icy glare.

"Thank you, Mother," Mycroft said smoothly, though looking oddly at his own light blue jumper, complete with large snowflake.

Lestrade laughed. "Very nice. Why don't you put them on?"

The Holmes brothers did so reluctantly, Sherlock's hair further ruffled by the wool.

"You all look lovely," Liana cooed.

"Moving swiftly on," Sherlock gave Lestrade a 'we-will-never-speak-of-this-again' look, "maybe Mummy should open her presents from us."

"From Mycroft," she looked at the large box. "It's very heavy, darling." She tore off the wrapping. "Wine!"

"Pétrus '05, your favourite I believe?"

"I know I like wine, Mycroft, but I probably didn't need a whole crate of it."

"Oh."

She kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you. We can have some of it later tonight."

Sherlock eagerly passed her a small box. John had a sneaking suspicion that he wanted to outdo Mycroft. "From John and me again."

She giggled. "You boys bought me a present together? It's like you're married!"

Sherlock and John both blushed at that. "It's just I don't know you terribly well, Liana, so I thought it would be better to chip in with Sherlock…"

"No, thank you John," she opened it. "Oh! It's beautiful!" she slipped the bracelet around her wrist. "You shouldn't have."

John looked at the parcel next to him. "This is for me, from Mycroft." It was a cold, cylindrical object, except it curved at the end. It felt like a bottle.

"You always seem to be complaining that there's no milk when I visit," Mycroft said offhand. "I thought that if Sherlock never buys you milk, I could."

John laughed. "Thanks!"

Sherlock glared. "Hilarious, Mycroft."

"Oh believe me, I know."

There were just three more presents under the tree. "To Sherlock," said John. "From… Victor."

John could have sworn he felt the room go down a few temperatures. Close enough to buy each other presents, then. Sherlock had probably bought him something too, something John didn't know about. He probably bothered for Victor.

"Whisky," Sherlock sighed. "The man doesn't know me at all."

"It was very nice of him," John forced out, not wanting to seem like the jealous boyfriend in the corner. Boyfriend? If only.

"Lestrade, do you want this? You're a whisky drinker, I believe."

"Um, yeah, if you're sure?" he replied. He took the bottle from him. "This is good stuff, Sherlock."

"Consider it a Christmas present."

"Well, thank you."

"Now I'm the only person who hasn't gotten you something," said Mycroft sadly. "I feel bad."

"I'm sure I can think of something."

John nervously picked up his present to Sherlock. "I'm sorry if this isn't OK. I did a bit of research, and I think it's OK…"

Sherlock unwrapped it. "John…" he couldn't detect the tone of his voice.

"Is it alright?" John looked at them. "I knew that you were looking at poisons from South America for that experiment, and I know I said I didn't want them in the flat, but I wanted to… surprise you."

Sherlock took the rack of vials and placed it carefully down next to him. "Thank you so much, John. I love it."

He blushed. "Well. Don't mention it."

Whilst he reached for the final present under the tree, he could have sworn he saw Mycroft and Lestrade exchange a knowing look. Whether this was due to him or the- well, what ever the hell those two were doing with each other- John couldn't be sure.

"I didn't realise you'd gotten me anything," he said, reading the tag.

"Of course I got you something. I'm not a monster," Sherlock replied, looking embarrassed. "It's a little… Well. Open it."

He did so. It was a plastic box, about the size of a printer. On top was labelled 'Emergency Sherlock Kit'.

"I know I'm not the easiest person to live with," he said apologetically. "And sometimes you have to go upstairs to your room to be on your own for a while. I felt a little bad that you can't do anything that you want to do when I'm the problem so… I analysed your habits and your preferences, and put them in a box. You can keep it in your room, and you can use them when you want to stay away from me."

John looked in the box. There was a very small kettle, a striped mug, some teabags, a few old CDs, a notepad and pens, some food with a long sell by date and, to John's amusement, a sign to be hung on the door which read 'PISS OFF SHERLOCK'.

Liana tutted. "Language, Sherlock."

"Sorry Mummy. But you should hear John- you can't even imagine how angry he'll get at that laptop of his."

John was still staring at the box. It was so… thoughtful. And so out of character! "You shouldn't have…"

"But do you like it?" Sherlock asked nervously.

"Yes. But you've never cared about that before!" he joked.

"I have. Honestly, I have."

John wasn't sure what to say to that, but luckily Liana interrupted. "Marvellous. Now- I'm going to go check on the food. Robert was a darling and started it all off, but he's off to his daughter's in a moment. You should have enough time to change and freshen up before lunch! And boys," she said warningly, "you'll be wearing those jumpers if you know what's good for you."

Lestrade and John waited until she had left the room before laughing. "Oh my God," Lestrade wiped a tear from his eye. "The big bad Holmes brothers, bossed around by their mother!"

They both glowered. "Would you like to be on the receiving end of that?"

"No," he admitted. "But it doesn't make it any less entertaining."

Mycroft examined himself in the mirror. He looked all wrong. The jumper clung to him in all the wrong ways, exposing his rounded shoulders and the curve of his stomach. He attempted to stretch it and make it look baggy, but somehow that looked worse.

He wasn't going to eat much, he'd decided that already. He'd eat just enough to be polite, then leave it at that. No pudding. He was on a diet. He'd lost 5 pounds already, which was a good thing, but it felt frustratingly slow. Especially with Christmas in the way. But he wouldn't put it back on; he wouldn't not be so weak. He was Mycroft bloody Holmes.

He met Greg in the corridor, who was wearing the clothes Mycroft had lent him. "You look nice," he said awkwardly.

"I don't," Mycroft pulled at the jumper. "Light blue isn't really my colour."

"Oh, I don't know." Greg took a step closer to him. "I think it suits you."

The hairs on the back of Mycroft's neck stood on end. He was just a couple of inches shorter than him, the perfect height to kiss him. "You're too kind."

Greg looked up at the doorframe they were standing under. "Mistletoe…" he said absentmindedly.

"Y-Yes," he stammered back, glancing at it nervously.

Greg moved closer still. "Well, it is a tradition, after all…"

"Of course. Tradition…"

Greg placed a rough hand on Mycroft's pale cheek and guided him towards his mouth- not that he needed much guiding. There was something about him that Mycroft couldn't avoid, he was magnetic. The kiss was gentle and all too short, but luckily he'd managed to stop himself from making some embarrassing moan or the like.

Greg smiled at him. "Merry Christmas."

He walked ahead down the stairs, Mycroft following behind in a daze. He looked at the back of Greg's head as he walked in front. Whilst this in no way guarantees affection, he's not so repulsed by me. At least, not enough to avoid kissing me. This should have been reassuring, but if anything it just made him feel worse and more confused.

Sherlock and John were sat at the table, whilst Liana brought in plates of food. It was strangely domestic. Thinking about it, it was the first time this had happened… ever. One or more of them was usually doing something at Christmas and couldn't come back home, leaving mother all alone. He felt a little ashamed.

"Sit down, boys. This is one of the finest turkeys in Britain. You will eat it and you will like it."

Sherlock explained to Lestrade and John. "Mother gets a little aggressive when she's cooking."

The final plates of vegetables and various other foods were placed down on the table, and Liana visibly relaxed as she sat down. "Right. Before we eat, shall we say a prayer?"

For a moment, the entire table was shocked, before Liana let out an undignified snort that was most out of character. "Oh, you lot will believe anything."

They started taking food slowly. John picked up the cracker in front of him. "Care to pull one, Sherlock."

He tugged the end reluctantly, clearly unable to see the point. It cracked loudly.

"You won, Sherlock. Look at the stuff inside…"

He poked his long fingers into the cracker's shell. "What do you call a woman who stands between two goal posts?" he said, reading the joke off the little piece of paper. "Annette."

They all groaned. "I swear they get worse as the years pass," Liana sighed.

He fished out a purple crown. "It matches your jumper!" John laughed. "Put it on!"

"No."

"Oh go on."

"Please?"

"Why?"

"Because it would make me happy…"

Sherlock frowned. "Emotional blackmail is not becoming, John." He placed the hat on his head.

"I didn't expect that to work."

"Well it did. Now shut up and eat your turkey."

Mycroft couldn't help but feel his mood dampen at that. It wouldn't be long before those two got together, he could tell. They'd been dancing around each other ever since they'd arrived. And what did he have? A chance kiss with a police officer who was probably just obeying tradition. He didn't think it was out of spite- from what he'd seen, Greg was a very good person- but he didn't know for certain…

He stared down at the food on his plate and began shoveling food into his mouth. To hell with the diet. What was it even for? Who was he trying to impress?

The dinner passed without notable event- there were more terrible jokes (which for some reason Liana found hilarious once she'd got some of Mycroft's Pétrus 05 down her), more paper hats (one of which the very tipsy Liana was wearing jauntily askew) and more food (which Sherlock was eating a shocking amount of). The finally all finished with the food, having all eaten a lot of Liana's delicious but fattening Christmas cake.

"Well," Lestrade said with a groan. "I won't be eating for quite some time."

"I don't blame you," said John. "I've never eaten so much food in my life."

Mycroft stared down at his empty plate, sickened. All that work, gone. Gone in an instant, because he had been so weak.

"I shall be dieting in the New Year, methinks," Liana patted her stomach.

The only one who looked unaffected by the food they had consumed was Sherlock, who had eaten a good portion of the meal and didn't look full at all. It was bloody typical.

All his confusion and self revulsion started to mix together, swirling and swirling inside him until he began to feel nauseous.

"Are you alright, darling?" Liana asked, concerned. "You don't look entirely well."

"I," Mycroft started, attempting to settle his stomach. "I might just need some fresh air. I don't feel particularly good."

He got up from the table without another word, walking quickly towards the door.

They all looked at the door. "The poor boy," Liana sighed. "He's always been a sickly child."

John watched Lestrade's face, a mask of stony indifference that was betrayed only by his hands, which were gripped into tight fists.

They moved as a group to the living area, where John was a little surprised to find a television. For some reason, the Holmes family seemed above such trivialities. "I must watch the Queen's speech a little later on," she explained. "Liz and I are old friends."

John and Lestrade both blinked rapidly at this, whilst Sherlock remained unmoved. "I'm afraid John will insist on us all watching the 'Doctor Who Christmas Special' later on, as well."

John sighed. "We don't have to, of course."

Liana laughed. "Of course we do. I'm intrigued by the concept of this Doctor Who fellow. But first of all, I may go for a walk in the grounds. You're all welcome to join me, if you so wish."

John and Sherlock nodded in agreement, but Lestrade shook his head. "I might do a little light reading, if that's alright?"

"Of course."

He headed upstairs in a remarkable hurry, whilst Sherlock and John readied their coats. "He seemed enthusiastic," Sherlock murmured in John's ear.

"A good book, perhaps?" he replied, trying as hard as he could to listen to what Sherlock was saying and not the pleasant sensation of Sherlock's breath.

"Even you know fully well that he is not going to be reading."

"Well, even I realize that we shouldn't disturb them." John pulled a scarf around his neck and started to follow Liana outside- who was not the kind of person who waited for others to catch up- when Sherlock grabbed his arm.

"I didn't mean to imply… anything, just then. I'm sorry."

John looked at the hand still gripping him through his coat. "It's fine, Sherlock. It's all fine."

Mycroft was overcome with the feeling of shame. It had clung to his body as he'd bent over the toilet in the bathroom, picturing the greasy, fattening food churning in his stomach, and when he had purged himself it had only intensified with the hollow emptiness inside him.

He hadn't technically made himself sick. He'd felt sick, and then he was sick. He hadn't forced himself. So it wasn't a problem, it wasn't one of those issues that teenagers had, he wasn't- he didn't have a disorder.

But it was the first time this had happened in a while. Probably because he tended to lose control at Christmas. When he spent the holiday season alone, he was overwhelmed with loneliness, and had to fill himself somehow. When he was with family, he just felt penitent. There was no way of winning.

He now sat with his knees hugged tightly to his chest like a child, leaning against the radiator and crying, just a little. It was like controlled demolition- he allowed himself to crack in a safe and unreachable place instead of collapsing publically in a violent and undignified fashion. It was neater that way. At least, he had thought it was private…

"Mycroft?"

He looked up at Greg, standing horrified in the doorway, but he hadn't the energy to move.

"Gregory…"

Greg immediately knelt and wrapped his arms around his shuddering frame. It was odd that he knew exactly what Mycroft needed. He did not want to be lectured, not just now- because Greg knew what he had done, he could tell. He did not even want to be kissed by Greg like he had a few hours ago, the urge had momentarily dissipated. He needed to be protected by his touch, that was all. To forget the whole world, his family, even his own name just for this moment.

It was a long time before Greg let him go, taking a wet flannel from the sink and wiping Mycroft's mouth gently. It was comforting, in a strange sense, though he knew from experience that to recollect the experience later would be humiliating. They did not speak, neither knowing what to say, until Greg finally broke the silence.

"Why?"

Mycroft paused, culminating a little more control over himself. "I didn't make myself do it."

"Mycroft…"

"I didn't!" he protested, suddenly angry. "Why do you even care? You don't even know me!"

"I know you enough. Enough to at least partially realize how you feel, Mycroft Holmes, and no-one in the world deserves to feel how you do. And I want to help."

"I can help myself."

"Oh, clearly."

Mycroft bit his lip, feeling emotional. "That was cruel."
Greg hung his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean- I just want to help you, Mycroft, and I can't do that if you're not ready to help yourself."

"I want to… But I can't."

"There isn't an easy way of dealing with this. And I don't want to burden you with labels and names because I know it doesn't… But it's a serious problem, and you need help more than you'd like to admit."

"… I find myself inexplicably, overwhelmingly trusting you."

"I'm glad."

He helped Mycroft to his feet. "Was…" Mycroft started. "Was I right in thinking that at one point… You had feelings for me?"

Greg hesitated. "I did. I do."

"But we can't-"

"No," he interrupted. "However much I want to, we can't. Not yet. Not until you're better. I will be many things to you, Mycroft Holmes, whilst you fight this, but not your lover. But I will be everything except that until you're well enough to decide for yourself."

His mouth went dry. "Why?"

Greg allowed himself to smile. "Because I find myself inexplicably, overwhelmingly trusting you. In a way I haven't felt in years. I find you utterly enchanting."

John, Sherlock and Liana returned from their walk to find Mycroft and Lestrade sat in the living room. Mycroft was reading his paper solemnly, and Lestrade was sat with a book cradled in his arms. The atmosphere was tense, even John could tell, but he was still unsure as to what had happened whilst they had been out.

Liana sat down to watch the Queen's speech. "Liz will be so pleased that the boys have seen her do her speech. She always was fond of them both."

"You've met the Queen?" John asked Sherlock.

"More than that. She tried to set me up with that bore of a grandson of hers, what's his name…? Got married recently…?"

"Are you inferring that Prince William is both gay and set up on dates by his grandmother?"

"Of course not. I implied it, you inferred it."

John caught snatches of the Queen's speech, but they mostly faded into background noise. "Liana, you told me you had photos of Sherlock in a paddling pool I could blackmail him with?"

She gave him a sly grin. "The albums are in that cupboard over there."

"Mummy!" Sherlock exclaimed, but she ignored him.

"This year has been one of many struggles," came the Queen's voice from the television, "and one of much conflict."

John went to the cupboard. He had a flick through, and came across individual books labeled 'Mycroft' and 'Sherlock'. He took out the latter, a lilac covered book, and opened it. "Oh bless, you look so sweet!"

He pointed at a picture of Sherlock at the beach, around five or six years old, and Sherlock frowned. "I do not look sweet. I have never been sweet."

"I beg to differ." He turned the page. Slowly Sherlock aged, still retaining the mop of dark brown curly hair and the angular features.

"I would be lying if I said 2012 will be easier- it will be much, much harder, as every year is."

But the most staggering thing that John noticed as he flicked through the book was how much his expressions had changed. In a picture of him in his first school uniform, Sherlock had positively radiated with happiness.

"But even as the days get harder, hope remains. Hope stays."

But towards his teenage years, he saw only Sherlock's familiar scowl and a blank look of emptiness that did not suit the elegant face. Except for when he reached a certain section of the book… Sherlock, with a blonde, tanned, handsome young boy, at around sixteen.

"Victor?" John asked, attempting to keep emotion from his voice.

"Yes," Sherlock said curtly. "Victor."

The photos seemed to be endless. Sherlock and Victor at home, Sherlock and Victor in London, Sherlock and Victor by the sea, an endless supply of memories that only reminded John of all the time he'd missed. Of the time he could never get back, the time he had spent with someone who was his intellectual level.

"The things we want are rarely easy to obtain, but we must trust in ourselves and our own hard work to gain them."

"You look so happy with him." He did. He was smiling so much, looking at Victor like he had never even imagined the supposed sociopath capable of looking.

"I was. You are awfully interested in him."

"So what if I am?" John said defensively, his voice suddenly louder. The others looked, but John didn't care. "Why do you care?"

"Trust, therefore, in the government's and indeed my own pledge: we will all fight for what is important to you as a nation."

Sherlock paused. "John, I'm insulted that you don't already know."

John snapped the book shut. "I'm sorry my lack of intelligence once again offends you." Without stopping to offer an explanation, he walked once more out of the room.

He regretted running out as he did. He didn't know how he was going to explain it to the others. Sorry I just went off on one, I was sulking over the fact I'm in love with your son/brother/pet consulting detective and he'll never be mine.

Love- now there was something he hadn't admitted before. Did he love Sherlock? He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure he wanted to be sure. It would make the finality of the moment all the more staggering. Sherlock had to know how he felt after that, even if the others didn't. And what then? It couldn't be the same as before, not now.

He heard a short knock at the door. It had to be Sherlock. He didn't make a sound.

"John?" It was indeed Sherlock. "John, will you let me in please?"

To his intense shock, Sherlock sounded emotional. "Please, John, just let me in."

If he had been a braver man, he would have. But he couldn't. "John?"

He heard something thunk against the wood of the door, which he suspected was Sherlock's fist, but he said no more. John heard him walk away and sighed, falling back onto his bed.

If he had to move, he didn't know what he'd do. He didn't want Sherlock cut out of his life, by no means did he want that. But it must be what Sherlock wanted, or at least what he had decided was necessary.

"John?"

He expected to hear Sherlock again, so was therefore surprised when he recognized the voice as Liana's.

"John Watson, you might think my son is persistent, but by God he's nothing to me. Let me in, and let me in now, otherwise I will break this god damn door down."

He blinked, incredulous at how threatening the woman sounded. Nervously, he padded over to the door and gently unlocked it.

She stood smartly at the door, a resolute and thoroughly unreadable look on her face that was reminiscent of her son. "Thank you."

He shut the door behind her as she stood in the corner of the room. "Liana, I'm sorry for what happened-"

"Do you know why I fear bad people, John?" She interrupted, looking him straight in the eye.

So she did remember what had happened. "I do not."

"My father was a drunk," she said in a matter of fact tone, as if she were reading out a shopping list. "And not a nice one, either. He used to come home drunk after work once or twice a month, and my mother would lock my sister and me in our bedroom whilst he had his way with her. You understand what I mean, of course?"

John felt physically sickened by her offhand manner. "Yes."

She sat behind him. "Locks and bars keep the bad men away, John. That's why I've always admired the police so, why I admire dear Gregory."

"I admire him too."

"A good man. Just like you."

John looked at his feet. "I wouldn't say that so quickly, if I were you."

She seemed to ignore him. "I let my father rule me until the day he died. I let him destroy me, and so I built walls. I trapped myself in my world of fundraisers and parties and upper class crap. It's all so vapid, this life. But it was safe. I locked the doors to the outside world and I locked my boys in with me. It was selfish of me. They grew up… Not like the other boys."

"I don't think they would ever have been like other boys. I don't think they'd want to be."

"You're telling me they wouldn't be happier? Not as intelligent, perhaps, but happier?"

John hesitated. "Whether they would have been or not, it's immaterial. What's done is done."

"But I worry about them so. I worry about them constantly. They ran off to that big city, all alone, with all those demons. They both go chasing after the monsters I have nightmares about. It's pathetic of me, really." John heard her voice crack, but only for a moment. "I just want to know they're not alone in doing it, that they've got someone good on their side, an equal."

John realized where she was going. "But I'm not an equal to your son, Liana. You and I both know that."

She smiled wryly. "In my heart, none can compare to them. But you're damn close, John Watson. You're what Sherlock needs; you're a sense of direction. Someone who appreciates just how bloody brilliant that boy is and tells him so. Someone who tells him the truth, good or bad, honest and straight. Well," her lips quirked, "not quite straight."

He passed over her last comment. "I'm unremarkable next to him."

"To some, perhaps, but not to Sherlock. I know him well enough to realize that you are quite the opposite in his mind. The qualities you possess are underrated, frankly. Everyone wants a flashy show, some dazzle, they want to be entertained. But the show wouldn't work without you, Doctor Watson, don't forget that. Sherlock can't function without you in his life, not any more; he's far too far gone. I've seen it in his eyes. You're the remedy he's needed for so long. Every bit his equal."

John wasn't sure how to take what she was saying in. "But Victor…"

"I think there has been some miscommunication between you both about Victor. Victor did indeed make Sherlock happy for a time, and they were superficially well matched. But Victor isn't the kind of person with the strength of character to stand up to Sherlock, not like you."

He was finding it hard to breathe. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying there's an irritable, cranky 6'1 consulting detective in the room next door who would like to make up with you. Now is that possible?"

"Yes," he felt himself smile, "I'd say so."

She grinned back. "I'll make myself scarce then. It wouldn't do for me to hear the sounds of my son passionately redeeming himself."

John blushed scarlet, and Liana laughed heartily, before leaving the room. The way she could do anything, say anything and not feel embarrassed was down right indecent. But he was avoiding the point. He glanced across at the mirror opposite him, smoothing his hair down. He didn't want anything to be out of place for this moment.

He worked up the courage to go outside into the corridor and knock at the door. Almost immediately, a hopeful Sherlock answered, his eyes a little red. "John!"

"Can I come in?"

"Of course."

Sherlock's childhood room was exactly as he had imagined. Charts were stuck to the walls, some of which seemed permanently smoke damaged, or had little holes in them. The floor too was irrevocably blackened and covered in stains, including one that looked suspiciously like blood in the corner of the room. Sherlock saw John looking at his surroundings. "Do you like it?"

"It's so you," he said with a small smile. He looked back at Sherlock, who was staring nervously at the ground. "Come sit."

They both perched on the end of Sherlock's bed. "Tell me about Victor."

Sherlock seemed uneasy talking about the subject. "We were young, I was foolish in thinking that he could stand my constant talk of experiments. Even he got bored of me eventually."

"And that's why you wanted to get back together with him at the party?"

Sherlock blinked. "What? No! I was mad at him!"

John frowned. "But I- I saw you two- When the lights went out, you looked like you were-"

"I was about to bloody hit him," Sherlock grumbled. "For being such an arse."

"Why? What did he do?"

He looked desperately at John. "I thought you liked him- though I now realize that isn't true, after what happened downstairs. But I thought you wanted him and- not only did it make me admit to myself what I had known for a while, that I want you for myself, but Victor is deeply unsuitable for you."

"Unsuitable?"

"A serial adulterer. That's why we broke up, in fact. He found that I was not enough for him."

John put a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. "I'm sorry."

"It's hardly your fault. But he was flirting with you, and I didn't want him to hurt you. I told him that you were out of bounds, and I misconstrued your anger at seeing me with him as anger for me trying to hurt him. I was jealous, John, I was right up until I saw you walk out. I care for you a great deal, and your good opinion is important to me. That's why I'm so happy you feel the same way as I do."

John swallowed. "So you understand my feelings for you, then?"

"I do. And you mine?"

"I believe so."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile. "That's… fantastic."

John giggled a little, holding Sherlock's other hand. "So what do we do now?"

Sherlock smirked. "I may not have been on the dating scene for a long time, but I believe kissing is still acceptable."

"More than acceptable," John replied. "Certainly in this case, it is a necessity."

If Sherlock and John noticed the way that Liana glanced over to them during the Doctor Who Christmas Special, they did not let on. Similarly, they didn't seem to notice the curious stares of Greg and Mycroft as the new couple curled up together on the sofa. Liana was regretful that she could not have done more for her other son, but she knew that their time would come. You only had to see the way Greg looked at Mycroft to see he was smitten, and vice versa. At the moment nothing else could be done, except to sit down together as a family and wonder why the bloody hell she hadn't started watching Doctor Who before now.

It was around three o'clock on Boxing Day, and Mycroft was loading their bags into the car. Sherlock and John had agreed to drive him and Greg back to London with them, though he suspected that it was more John's idea than his brother's.

"I shall miss you all so," said Liana, giving Sherlock a kiss. "We must do it again next year."

"Yes," said John. "Why don't you all come to ours? You too, Greg, if you want?"

"I'd love to," he replied, glancing back at Mycroft. "I'll just go help."

They'd all eventually said goodbye- Liana taking her opportunity to give her sons back their jumpers, which they had strategically left behind- and set off back to London. It didn't take long before John and Greg were asleep in the back, heads pressed against their respective windows and far away from the Christmas traffic.

Mycroft sat beside his brother, staring out of the window. "We're fools, aren't we?"

"Speak for yourself," Sherlock replied quietly, though not out of contempt.

"What are we doing, Sherlock? When did we become so sentimental?"

Sherlock's eyes remained on the road. "Perhaps we were never as strong as we thought we were."

"I certainly don't feel very strong. I barely even know this man- I met him less than two days ago. And already I think I've… Lord, I don't even know. I feel like I know so much, and yet at the same time he remains a mystery to me."

"I don't think that changes with time," he replied. "I've known John for nearly a year now, and I still find him a revelation."

"This vulnerability," Mycroft said bitterly, "I'm not sure I'll get used to it."

"You're not supposed to. You should never become accustomed to feeling vulnerable. But what matters is that you trust Greg implicitly, and with good reason. He's ever inch the equal to my brother."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "I do believe that was a crumb of affection, Sherlock."

"Don't get used to it," he grumbled.

"Sherlock, do you believe that this period of friendship has made you more at ease with John?"

He hesitated. "You know, I think it probably has. I certainly know him more than I would, and I think our relationship is stronger for it."

"I'm glad. I'm very glad."

"Thank you." This was all getting a little too touchy feely for Sherlock. "Now shut up and go to sleep."

And he did, whilst Sherlock drove them back to London, through the wind and snow. There would be time for practicalities there- the honeymoon period would be over for him and John. John would be reminded of what an arse Sherlock could be at times. And of course, Mycroft would need to get help, with Greg by his side as- well, whatever the hell he was to Mycroft. The world doesn't stop turning because it's Christmas. But Sherlock hoped that they would all get through it together, and hope lasts. Hope stays.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!